


Ever Fixed Mark

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Consensual, M/M, Mild BDSM, tattooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 05:30:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Set in Elizabethan England, Lord William Bodie cleaves with his lover Sir Raymond Doyle.





	Ever Fixed Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the Bistocon 2018 zine.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove.  
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
William Shakespeare 

 

Sir Raymond of Doyle had knelt before the late king, Henry the VIII, during his knighting ceremony. He later knelt to pledge his allegiance to HR Majesty, Elizabeth the First, along with his brother knights.

Thus it would stand to reason that kneeling in front of a fellow of the Royal Guard would be of no consequence. Yet, being on his knees, naked as the day he was born, swearing fealty to Lord William Bodie, felt like the most important event of his life.

He couldn’t help raising his eyes to gaze at the handsome man. A glossy brown fringe graced his forehead, accentuating brilliantly blue eyes and elegant features. His stylish clothing hid the heart of a complex man, well versed in court diplomacy and intrigue, as well as a proclivity for erotic sexual play.

“Will you submit completely and wholly to me, and only me?” Lord Bodie said. The words seemed harsh, but his expression was kind.

“I will, my liege,” Raymond whispered.

“Will you wear my sigil?” Bodie said, running one finger from Raymond’s forehead, down the cheekbone that had broken when he caught the broad side of a wooden blade in battle training two summers ago. Bodie pressed his thumb firmly against Raymond’s misaligned bone and then turned his hand so that his thumb remained on the side of Raymond’s face with the rest of his fingers cupped around the edge of the jawbone. With his left hand, Bodie captured Raymond’s neck, tracing the gold chain he had given the young knight a fortnight earlier. “And my collar?”

Raymond’s heart drummed against his ribcage. He felt like he had been preparing for this question since he was a boy. The roses and scented handkerchiefs beautiful maidens were always bestowing on him were mere playthings. This—what he wanted with Sir Bodie—was beyond precious. This was life.

“Everything I do for you gives me pleasure,” Raymond vowed.

“Your hair is beautiful. But you should not wear bound back like this,” Bodie said softly, loosening the cloth Raymond used to keep his long curls tightly plaited into a thick club. “But in the French style, tumbling over your shoulders.”

“Let me.” Raymond smiled, deftly unbraiding his hair. The auburn tresses fell in long waves several inches below his shoulders. He turned his head, feeling almost shy when Bodie teased a long ringlet out with one finger. 

“A lovelock,” Bodie declared. “Just for me. Were I a maiden, I’d shear it off and wear it tucked in a locket around my neck. But I prefer it hanging from your head, my own private Samson, before the debacle with Delilah.” 

“Perhaps this just proves the folly of dallying with women?” Raymond leaned in against Bodie’s thighs. “That one is far safer in the company of men?”

“I believe you are correct!” Bodie chuckled. “Which bears the question, how much longer do we have? When does Cowley say your troop will ride out?”

“At daybreak, after the Sabbath,” Raymond replied softly. “Were that you would accompany our band.”

“I was loathe to offer my assistance on the campaign lest George inquire why I was so interested.” Bodie picked up a thick strip of leather with a buckle on the end.

Doyle couldn’t take his eyes off of the band. Far too short to be a baldrick or belt, it must be his collar. His throat tightened, mouth going dry. Would Bodie place it on him now? “Until then, I answer only to you.”

“Then with hours ahead of us, important things first, your collar,” Bodie said, wrapping the band around his neck ceremoniously. 

Without thinking, Doyle raised his hands to help centre the collar.

“Hands by your sides,” Bodie commanded, his voice like warm honey despite the warning. “This is mine, just as you are.”

When he slid the end through the buckle, Doyle had a wave of dizziness, sure his head would float away were it not for the collar. He had to press his hands against his thighs to weight himself to the floor. It felt as if he’d been waiting for this moment all of his life. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered, gladly accepting the reality of his new station. 

“And my sigil,” Bodie decided, standing to circle his submissive. “In a special place.”

“Where?” When Raymond twisted his neck, the tight collar pressed into his artery, throbbing along with his heart. He couldn’t turn far enough to see his master bend down and run a finger along his spine. 

“Just here.” Bodie dug his thumbnail into the small of Raymond’s back, where his spine curved inward.

Tiny vibrations, tingling as if he’d bathed in French champagne, ran up and down Doyle’s torso. 

Bodie kissed the spot, wetting it with his tongue. “Marked as mine own, yet few if any will ever see the proof.”

“No-one,” Raymond promised. The thought of a sharp thorn stabbing into his flesh brought conflicting emotions. It wasn’t that he’d never been blooded before—of course he had. Training with the lance and sword was dangerous. He often had bruised and bleeding gashes after practice. Those were unavoidable, even necessary, to prepare for battle. 

Yielding to the wishes of his Bodie—his master—was another thing entirely. Submission to pain, taking it willingly. He and Bodie had discussed other forms of erotic pain, flagellation and bondage, but hadn’t tested any yet. One step at a time, as they explored this new world. Exciting, provocative and intimidating, all because Raymond loved this man down to his very soul. 

“Where did you learn to mark the skin?” Raymond asked, curiously. He’d seen few a men with inked patterns on their upper arms or chest, because they’d been on the high seas, to far away islands.

“I mastered—“ Bodie grinned at the word play, “the skill when I was in the dark continent, in my youth.”

“But you are unmarked.” He knew that for a fact, having explored every inch of Bodie’s pale body the first few times they came together in bed.

“True, but I’ve tattooed others in the tribal way.” He held out a hand, hoisting Doyle to a stand. “It is fascinating, and extremely intimate.”

Doyle swayed slightly when he stood, his feet tingling as blood rushed in. Bodie tightened his grip, kissing Doyle possessively. “So did you mark other…lovers?” Doyle asked.

“Lovers, yes, I’ll wager, but not my own lovers.” Bodie laughed, seeing Doyle’s expression. “Men I campaigned with wished to remember their intended in England, or even maidens they’d met in Africa. Love tokens, of a kind.” He led Doyle to a long wooden bench with cushions at one end. “Lie there, on your belly, sunshine.”

Doyle stretched out, automatically grasping the legs of the bench with both hands. He turned his head to watch his master prepare. Bodie removed his purple velvet coat and silk shirt, standing for a moment clad only in his black velvet breeches. Doyle’s heart thudded against the unyielding bench. He yearned for Bodie’s hands caressing his flesh, leaving the exotic mark, even if it hurt.

“Beautiful. Your skin is so fine, so soft.” Bodie stroked Raymond’s back, fingering the knobs of his spine. “A perfect canvas for my work.” He pulled over a small table covered with a linen cloth. Lifting the linen, he revealed the items underneath. Every day objects suddenly appeared frightening and sinister. “Do you wish to be restrained?” Bodie asked softly, holding up silken bindings, the sort generally used to tie curtains around a bed. 

“No, sir,” Raymond whispered, licking his lips. 

Bodie smiled, pointing to a curious piece of wood with a long, very sharp thorn skewered through one end. “This is the lance, to pierce the skin and deposit the colour beneath,” Bodie said. There were several other thorns scattered on the table, assumedly replacements for the original. A cup of black ink made from ash and water sat nearby, the surface shimmering in the flickering lamp light. 

“What is the design of your sigil?” 

“The family crest is a mite too obvious.” Bodie smirked, his eyebrow arched with amusement. The heraldic shield mounted on the wall featured a brown bird on a field of gold. “Not to mention impossible to render with this tool. Your mark will be far simpler.” He perched on a stool to begin his art.

Doyle inhaled, his ribs expanding against the hard bench. He closed his eyes, the warmth of Bodie’s palm on his back a grounding force. The first prick of the thorn wasn’t bad, but the second and third intensified the pain in a tiny spot. The slap of the wooden pivot driving the thorn repeatedly into his back was a sound he’d not easily forget, nor the huff of Bodie’s breath on his neck.

 _Intimate._ Yes. 

Exquisite. Provocative, and strangely arousing. Almost like the reaming Bodie had given him the night before as he clung to the bedposters. Bodie had slammed into his arsehole, planting his seed deeply inside. No fears that he could father a child, but that was not the point. It was a giving of himself. Doyle had accepted the gift with joyous relief, his orgasm coming apace with Bodie’s.

His little hole still smarted, but not half as much as the image forming on his back. Seemed as if the thorn was drilling into his bones, changing his very essence to reflect Bodie’s. He clenched his teeth to keep from whimpering, digging his fingernails into the legs of the bench. 

This would be the badge of his fidelity, of his strength and Bodie’s vitality, woven together forever.

“How is it, Raymond?” Bodie sprinkled water on his artwork, causing Doyle to shiver at the unexpected bath. A quick wipe of a flannel dried the skin. “This will proceed for an hour, perhaps.”

“I am with you, Lord. I’d not submit if I did not want this,” Doyle said honestly. “Feels nearly like—“

“Sex?” Bodie chuckled. He yanked the thorn out of the wood and screwed in a fresh one.

“Aye, exactly the word I had in mind.” Doyle stretched his cramped fingers, resting his left hand on Bodie’s thigh. The velvet was a plush caress against the hardened callouses on his palms earned from long hours of sword practice. 

“When we met, that day in Her Majesty’s stable yard, I knew you were no fawning courtier, gaining a knighthood through connections.” Bodie struck the new thorn firmly into malleable flesh.

Doyle was sure he could feel the ink sinking into his skin. “I was covered in horse shit and stinking from an encounter with a skunk,” Doyle retorted to keep his mind off the steady drum of the thorn. “You were dressed in clothes fit for the throne room.”

“Where I had just come from,” Bodie agreed. “Cowley had asked me to keep an eye out for the new recruit, and there you were, beddable as any wench in a tavern.”

Doyle snarled, which helped immensely, and clamped his fingers into Bodie’s strong thigh. “Were that you were clean enough to spit on,” he said sourly.

“Thy tongue is as barbed as thy fangs.” Bodie laughed so violently he had to pause in his task. 

Doyle craned his neck to the left, grimacing at a line of blood tricking along his ribs. There was no way that he could see the resulting image from any position known to man. Even attempting to view it in a mirror would be nigh on to impossible. _Ingenious, that was._ “Was your trap that snared me.” He pressed his face into the velvet thigh so close by.

“Cretin,” Bodie said fondly, adding another few jabs. 

Both were drenched in sweat as the hour progressed. Doyle never got used to the incessant gouging, but there came a point when he couldn’t quite remember life before, nor anticipate when the burning pain would end. Tracing the pattern of stabs in his mind, Doyle was sure that Bodie was designing a very simple B. One straight row down, possibly the span of two fingers at most, and two curved lines on the right side. 

The church bells across the way from Bodie’s palace apartments tolled midnight when he laid aside the wood and thorn. “Love, it’s done,” he said, surrounding the sigil with kisses.

Past tired of lying so still, Doyle pushed himself up to get one of those kisses on his mouth. His body ached is if he’d gone three rounds with sword master Macklin, and while the sting in the middle of his back wasn’t crippling, it was sorely present, as if a layer of skin had been scraped off. He ignored both, returning the kiss for all he was worth. Bodie paused long enough to straddle the bench so that they faced one another.

“My turn now,” Doyle announced with a grin, bending his neck to worship his lover’s chest. He lipped Bodie’s left nipple, lapping his tongue around until it peaked, and then catching the nub in his teeth. After tugging gently, he released his prey.

Bodie gasped, surging into Doyle’s mouth. “Every stroke whets my blade, Parsifal,” he groaned. “Won’t take a moment to sharpen the point.”

“Mouth or arsehole, master?” Doyle asked, arousal swelling his own cock to full length. His whole being throbbed in time with his heart.

“I think you know the answer.” Bodie cupped his jaw with both hands, insinuating his thumbs between Doyle’s lips. “I want to see my masterpiece as I cleave your heavenly globes and tickle your manhood.”

Laughing, Raymond sucked on the digits, dizzy with love. How did Bodie make him feel like this, and so effortlessly? A miracle the Church would condemn with declarations of everlasting hell. Yet, he felt raised up, validated whenever he was with Bodie.

“Aye,” he said when he could speak. “I knew.”

“Turn so that you would be sitting between my knees,” Bodie instructed, standing up still straddling the bench. He unlaced his breeches, his erection thrusting outward. “Would you pierce yourself on my dagger?” he asked with a grin.

“Will you oil your weapon, sir?” Doyle replied formally, more than ready to proceed. These stalling techniques played havoc with his patience, but as the submissive, he had to follow his master’s lead. He would do nothing else. 

In addition, Bodie’s games were fun.

“The finest there is, from the continent.” Bodie dipped his fingers in a jar of ointment on the table, smearing it liberally over his cock. He beckoned Doyle forward, turning him at the last moment so that Bodie could centre himself directly in line with Doyle’s hole.

The thick, blunt end poked into his opening, which was still tender from the night before. Doyle worried his bottom lip, afraid that after his stoicism with the tattooing, he’d cry out over a such a minor ache in his arse, but damned he hurt. All over. That Bodie had caused every bruise and wound made them special, not abhorrent.

“Slowly, sir,” he whispered. “I—“

Bodie smacked him on the right flank with a leather glove. Hardly a welt, but the sudden pain galvanized him. Doyle gasped, shoving back against his intruder. The stretching cramp was incredible, unimaginable, sending shock waves through his core. Bodie had never gone in so fast, so hard. Doyle arched with a scream, not sure whether to pull away or settle more firmly into Bodie’s lap.

“That’s it, pet,” Bodie crooned in his ear, closing both hands around Doyle’s dripping length. “Let me fill your shaft, ink my mark deep inside.”

“You’ve marked my soul, Bodie,” Doyle vowed, head back against his master’s shoulder. “Every inch of me.” He panted as Bodie pinched his balls and then fisted his cock, turning him into a lightning rod of pure sensation. Stars and moons whirled in his vision, giving off fiery sparks. He’d go mad, surely, if he didn’t release soon, but Bodie’s tight grasp on the base of his manhood made that nigh onto impossible. 

“Just as you’ve marked me, invisibly.” Bodie rocked his hips, seating himself ever deeper inside his sheath. 

Doyle cried out, sure he’d be split asunder just as Bodie squeezed him one last time. They erupted in concert, flying into the night sky without ever leaving the chamber.

“Mine own,” Bodie whispered.

“My love,” Doyle answered.

FIN


End file.
